A peaceful mind
by VenusJay
Summary: There is something distressing about watching John in the fit of a nightmare. It is rather like watching an animal suffer where its incessant whining begins to agitate one's nerves. Alleviating his distress is not of sentiment, I must have my blogger at his best. It is of benefit to the work. Oh you sneaky ones, reading without reviewing? I am displeased.
1. Chapter 1

Thank you for reading, it's a pleasure to write. Reviews keep me going. Always a pleasure, Jay x

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There was nothing like watching John sleep. He seemed so rested and so at peace but at the same time ready to strike, like a cobra lying in wait. His fingers trembled slightly, jerking occasionally like pulling a gun trigger. His breathing would increase and become shallow, his nightmares plaguing him and sending him to the front line of duty.

It seemed so at odds with his very British checked pyjama bottoms. Sometimes I would watch him toss and turn, trying to think of any possible solution that would ease his suffering. I composed several songs for him in the hope they would filter to his unconsciousness and tell him that he was not alone on the dry, arid battlefield of his mind.

The idea of sleep was intriguing to me. John had recommended it to me countless times, insisting that it was refreshing and would help me think. I didn't need to think. I needed to stop thinking, that was the problem. The reason I couldn't sleep. The irony.

Watching John though, was, different. It gave me a restful feeling. A night where I had watched him gave me a clearer thought pattern the next day. John was my sleep.

I believed at first that having a flatmate would irritate me beyond reason but Mycroft would not relent. He insisted that I have some sort of live in to ensure I didn't climb the walls by narcotics. For him it was like a personal gift when a certain army doctor was invalided home. In his own crafty fashion he had taken a stubborn man and told him what to do, so naturally he knew he would do the opposite. Mycroft had no need of a spy on me, he had many already.

No, John was more of a friend; A confidante and soundboard for my restless mind. I was grateful to have him and it distressed me slightly to see him in the fit of a nightmare. It puzzled me that he had a calm and peaceful demeanor that extended to his very core when inside he was in a raging turmoil of war.

I wove him a softer lullaby that seemed to soothe him. If he knew I did it, he never mentioned it and I preferred it that way. Sentiment is irrelevant to me but having my blogger in a permanent tired state due to nightmares is impractical to me. I require him at his best and if that requires a little work on my part then so be it.

It was difficult to deny however, the temptation to smooth his sweat soaked hair back from his forehead and provide comfort to him. It was like watching an animal suffer and I merely wish to alleviate his anguish. After all, it is of benefit to the work.


	2. Chapter 2

"Did you sleep well," Sherlock mumbled with perfect diction from behind his microscope. As always he was immaculately groomed at a time when I looked like I had been dragged backwards through a hedge.

"Yeah, sort of," I replied sleepily and headed into the kitchen.

"Tea," I called, receiving no response that I took to mean yes. Now to play a little game of 'Where has Sherlock put the teabags today?' Of course I found them in the small cupboard under the sink that has no other purpose than to hide the plumbing. Thankfully the milk was still drinkable and in a short time I held two slightly steaming cups of tea.

Setting Sherlock's beside him I sat down on the sofa with my laptop to check on the blog. Only a few new comments.

"John," Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Yep," I replied, glancing at him and sitting up straighter when I saw his anxious expression. "What's wrong," I asked him. There was a silence for a few minutes, permeated by the clock ticking loudly and traffic outside.

"Nothing," he whispered, staring vacantly in the direction of the window before returning to his microscope. The interaction left me confused to say the least but I let it drop. Sherlock was well known for the madness in his methods and something I had to put up with if I wanted to live here.

It was the madness that made me want to live here for the most part. I needed something in my life that required me to tidy it or organise it or shout at it. It gave me a sense of purpose where before I had been drifting aimlessly, living on an army pension in a bedsit and regretting my entire life until that point.

Sherlock for me was like the narcotics he craved. This indelible high that could only be satiated when we were running through the streets of London on the heels of a criminal. I needed the rush that Sherlock provided in his errant and erratic ways.

"You sure you're okay," I asked him. "You've been a bit off lately, vacant," I said.

He gave a brief nod but I'm not sure what it was in acknowledgement of. Yes he was okay or yes he had been vacant? I gave up trying to get an answer after a while. If Sherlock needed me he would talk to me, until then I would just have to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing was working. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Why would this happen? I had measured everything precisely, nothing was different and yet my pulse was racing, my skin crawling. Where was my Euphoric high, the thrill, the buzz? Why was Lestrade here?

This was my flat, I believe. Or maybe, no. It is. Grey and peeling and desolate, how apt. He was holding my wrist, creating a pressure on my crawling skin with his forefingers and thumb. Everything was loud and echoed in its silence and I vacantly acknowledged the sound of a faraway siren. The background symphony of London centre. It was a blur and I wanted the cold hard feel of the kitchen floor on my warm skin to cool the flames that were consuming me.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Of course I could hear him. Did he believe cocaine caused sudden hearing loss. This police officer was dull, boring, idiotic. Maybe I should have moved my scarf from the radiator. I didn't want the cat from the ceiling to get caught there. I think. I tried to tell them this but nothing would come out. I felt oddly sleepy. Normally the drug gave me a kick and energy but now everything was a lazy dance of colour around me.

"Mycroft, we didn't know whether to move him," Lestrade's voice sounded further away. I tried to look for him and laughed to myself when I saw his hideous, highstreet, brown shoes. Practical, durable, cheap, covered in mud and potentially spray paint. Requires further analysis.

"I'll take it from here, thank you."

Mycroft was here. This was bad, everything was bad. He hazily swam into view in front of me. His face was unreadable, even by my standards.

"I warned you Sherlock," he spoke quietly and I had to strain to concentrate on his movements.

"You may take him," he sighed aloud to the room. Darn Mycroft and his meddling. He is a fool to think I will calmly follow his directions for me, I just wanted to rest here and I would be fine. I needed everyone to stop being complete idiots and to, to..let me..sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Require assistance. SH

With what? JW

Error in judgement and resultant injury. SH

I waited for him to text an address and immediately got a taxi there, leaving my nice warm armchair to go out in the rain and find him. He was always doing this. The last time he had summoned me about a supposed injury it was simply to ask me an irrelevant question. I was a little relieved to hear from him at all compared to his usual bout of silence and mysterious absence during a case. At least he wanted me there.

The driver looked at me quizzically as I got out and headed straight for a nearby alleyway. No doubt he thought I was looking for some kind of illicit business but in true British style he said nothing about it.

This had better be worth it.

"Sherlock," I called into the darkness. There was no reply.

The alley was littered with black bin liner bags and stray rubbish. The odd dripping sound was the only thing intruding upon the silence besides my own footsteps.

"Sherlock?"

"John," a hoarse whisper came from in front of me. I moved forward carefully and found him slumped against the wall. His face was a grey pallor and his unruly curls were stuck to his forehead with either rain or sweat.

"You came," he panted at me. Looking down he held his hand across his abdomen and I could just make out the dark colouring was most likely blood.

"Jesus Sherlock, what have you done now," I berated him and he gave a weak smile.

"It's just a scratch," he said quietly, slightly muffled. I held onto his upper arm when he reached out to me and he moved to pull himself up, stopping abruptly and closing his eyes.

"You alright," I asked, noticing his whince. He didn't reply.

"Sherlock," I tried again, attempting to move him so as to better see his injury. I used the light on my phone and almost emptied my usually strong stomach when I saw the amount of blood. His shirt was soaked through right up to his chest and his trousers were coated in it. Looking at his face I could see that his eyes were glazed over with a faraway look.

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me what happened," I told him, trying to sound authoritative and not panicky as I pulled off my scarf to hold against the wound.

"Found suspect," he breathed, "knife, not good," he finished.

He put up resistance when he heard me call an ambulance but eventually he relented, slumping against my shoulder and taking shallow breaths. I debated about calling his brother but I didn't want him to hear me do it, he would definitely put up a fight then.

"Sherlock, look at me okay?"

He made no response.

I pulled his face around to look at him and his eyes were closed.

"Sherlock," I shouted, trying to keep him awake and attempting to check his pulse. It was slow and weak.

"Oh Christ, Sherlock," I said, pulling off my coat to rest under his head as I laid him down onto the ground. I could hear the sirens in the background getting closer. I pushed the hair back from his forehead and found my hands were shaking. Odd. I hadn't realised how cold it was.

"Come on Sherlock," I told him, checking his pulse and his breathing and hoping that he was right about it being a scratch.

He gave a soft whimper and the sound made me feel ill. Please be alright you great git.


	5. Chapter 5

"Mycroft?"

The mop of dark curls appeared around my door and I smiled. The tiny pyjama clad form hovered in the doorway.

"What is it Sherlock?"

"I had a bad dream."

Those words shouldn't make anyone feel happy but they made me somewhat happy. It gave me a feeling of affection for this small little creature who was otherwise a monstrous tearaway to display something human. I set my book aside and allowed him to hop onto the bed next to me.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shook his head, choosing instead to bury his head into the crook of my arm and put his thumb in his mouth. He seemed to do that out of habit now. At first it had been an act of defiance against Mummy's insistence that it was babyish.

Sherlock was unusual. I believed that perhaps he would have slowly grown to become more like me in his ways as he spent most time around me in the household, besides the nanny. But it never seemed to be the case. With each passing day he became more and more my opposite. He was startling clever at his young age and I had to constantly best him in order to maintain some form of pride. I dreaded the day when he would surpass me, I dreaded it's inevitability.

"Do you want me to get you something to drink," I asked him gently and he shook his head again. I expected him to launch into the telling of his nightmare but he remained quiet, reading my book over my arm. Words that were far too long for someone of his age and yet I could feel him becoming more irritated by the slow speed at which I turned the pages.

A while later I could hear his soft snuffling against me and I picked up my tiny brother and carried him back to his bedroom, tucking him under the blankets.

"Sleep well," I whispered, kissing him on the forehead. Even in sleep he squirmed away from me. Typical.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a hour of this. The incessant noise of shouting and screaming. The sound of a no doubt priceless family heirloom could be heard smashing against a downstairs wall. This was ridiculous. I hoped it couldn't be heard by my baby brother. I lifted the net curtain to look into the garden.

There he was beneath the tree, reading with a stack of books beside him, completely oblivious or completely uncaring. It was difficult to tell but I suspected the latter.

"Mister Holmes," I heard a voice behind me and turned to find Sherlock's nanny.

"Yes, what is it," I asked pleasantly. Something that sounded out of place in relation to the screaming match below.

"I cannot find Master Holmes for his bath."

"He's in the garden," I gently told her. Evidently she feared for her job each time my brother played truant and she had undoubtedly searched the house from top to bottom before asking me.

"Yes Mister Holmes," she nodded, turning to leave the room.

"He can stay there, it's alright," I assured her. "He may have a bath later."

She nodded. "Yes Sir."

I didn't want him to have to hear that.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John. My eyes were so heavy but I forced myself to open them, squinting a little at the harsh light.

Had I taken the drugs again? Lestrade was here, evidently yes.

"Sherlock, do you remember what happened?"

Lestrade looked tired as ever. No doubt as a result of our acquaintance combined with his divorce.

I had been having a perplexing dream about my childhood. It required further analysis. I had watched myself as a child, from my father's office. I recalled a small, sleeping version of myself in pyjamas with feet sewn on. How unusual.

"Took drugs again," I mumbled, surprised at the difficulties presented in speaking.

They gave a brief glance at each other.

"Em, no Sherlock," John replied, stepping closer to the bedside. "You were stabbed on a case, you lost a lot of blood. You've been out of things for a while now."

He sat in the bright blue chair beside me.

"Ah," I acknowledged. "I see. Did you at least apprehend the suspect?"

His expression showed the hadn't. Imbeciles. Now we would be further behind, a minor set back but irritating none the less.

Mycroft's presence could be felt in the size of the room. Evidently he had used his influence to find me a private room owing to how overcrowded London hospital's usually were. I hated his meddling but appreciated the quiet.

John had a thoughtful expression and I glanced at him, deducing his actions over the last while. I had been asleep for approximately five days it would seem by his appearance and the worry etched onto his face. Worry. Hmm. Something to analyse.

"Developments in the case so far?"

"Few," answered Lestrade, leaning against the door post and checking his phone. "I'd best get back to the office, work piling up," he explained. He had been here while I was unconscious? Interesting. Required analysis.

"Why didn't you ask me to go with you?"

"It wasn't necessary."

"Clearly," John replied sarcastically.

"Quite."

"You're an idiot sometimes, you know that Sherlock?"

Affectionate tone. Required further thought.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock looked strangely peaceful while he slept. Occasionally he would twitch or mutter quietly and I knew that somewhere in his troubled mind he was running through the streets of London, his very own battlefield.

It had been two days now. They would no doubt have taken him off sedation sooner but I had no doubt Mycroft had some influence in keeping him sleeping. Part of me suspected that he would have arranged for drug tests to be carried out and the flat to be searched without my knowing. I would let him have his way, I was too tired to complain otherwise and it was better off him searching for it than me. Evidently there were some there when Sherlock thought he had taken them.

I was grateful to Sarah for letting me change my shifts to fit visiting times, the hospital insisted that unless I was family I wasn't able to stay. A strange voice in my head argued that I was the closest thing he had but thankfully I didn't voice it.

Sherlock gave a whimper and I held his hand to reassure him, he quietened.

"Sherlock," he murmured quietly.

I couldn't understand what must be playing through his mind right now. Usually his thoughts were organised and clear cut. He looked so frail against the hospital bed. Usually his thin frame was hidden beneath designer suits and his trademark coat but now I could see the outline of most of his ribs beneath bandages.

There were no words to express the relief I felt that I had gotten to him on time. The thought of not made me want to be sick. He was beyond a genius and yet a complete idiot without measure. The number of times things had gone wrong when he had wandered off on his own and yet he never learned.


	9. Chapter 9

Having Sherlock home again only served to make me miss the sedated version of him. He was clearly back to his usual self the moment he walked through the door, noticing the rearranged state of the living room by the drugs team. He ranted and muttered curses to the heavens as he set about re-ordering his papers and his experiments.

It took all my coaxing to make him eat, drink of sleep at any sort of regular interval and he complained loudly about how incompetent the police team were that without him they had made no sign of any progress. I just watched him and sighed, reminding myself that having him here was better than not and that he would soon calm down.

I was back working my usual hours at the clinic which came as a much appreciated break from babysitting Sherlock. I had been given my orders from Mycroft with a very silent but very much present threat of what would happen if I didn't care for his brother.

Sherlock didn't seem to acknowledge my care though, insisting on reaching for things on high shelves and making his wound stretch painfully. I would shout at him and call him an idiot but he continued his unruly behaviour as if in some defiance of normal human pain. He insisted he couldn't feel it but the occasional wince suggested otherwise.

I had taken to preparing food and leaving it next to him in the hope that proximity would lead to him eating but it rarely did. I felt wary of pointing out to him what would happen if he didn't and no doubt he would end up back in hospital courtesy of his brother. He was in a bad enough mood as it was.

Lestrade seemed to be taking his agitated state in his stride but he refused to give me an answer when I asked him about it. He would casually say that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock but I didn't believe it. There was something wrong and he seemed to be trying to keep it from me.

"Greg," I had asked him as we stood in the kitchen of Baker Street. "Just tell me what's wrong, and don't try and tell me it's just him 'being Sherlock'. I know what he's like but this is different. He's...edgy," I finished with a glance to the living room. Greg sighed and smoothed his hand over his face.

"I honestly don't really know John," he said gruffly, seemingly annoyed at that fact himself. "I'm being pestered on all sides, about the case and stuff but also by you know who about you know who," he told me, a nod towards the living room.

"I'm sure you've been given your orders too," he half laughed. "I think Sherlock is very aware that he's being watched and is trying to rebel against it. We found drugs, John," he admitted with a sad look. "He wouldn't tell us if he'd taken them or not so Mycroft made sure to get him tested for it in the hospital. I've heard nothing about it, I thought you might have but obviously not."

He leant against the fridge and folded his arms across his chest. "By rights I think I've been made a compulsory volunteer in Sherlock's house arrest. From what I can gather Big Brother's watching and he doesn't like it."

I gave a brief nod, glad to have an idea of what was going on finally. Maybe I should speak to Mycroft and he would explain the situation. After all, I was the one living with Sherlock, I had a right to know when there was a problem.


End file.
